


i fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new

by bryndentully



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Character Study, F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryndentully/pseuds/bryndentully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"These hollow hill knights," Joffrey proclaims, face contorted in hideous glee, "will fight for Lady Sansa's hand!"</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	i fall in love just a little bit every day with someone new

**Author's Note:**

> I have too many plot bunnies and rare pairs. Either way, thanks for reading!

The gold cloaks do get a hold of Gendry, one way or another. He doesn't make it easy for them; one of those lousy _sers_ gets his arm broken for his trouble. Another, his nose.

Knights don't fight like gutter rats and the riffraff of Flea Bottom, Gendry knows. Knights like these have discipline. Training. He's a knight, too, just of some hollow hill in the Riverlands, but that title now belongs to the wind. Gendry's in the wind now, too, just like any chance of honor and finding the family he's never had. Instead, he's just going right back to where he started—King's Landing.

He's disappointed. Too disappointed. He should know better by now to want something. Dream of something.

"One wrong move, boy," Trant sneers, "and I'll stick that head of yours on a spike."

Living suits Gendry, so the choice is simple. He stays quiet while he's at it. Smiths work with their hands, after all. Not their mouths.

Anguy, opposite Gendry in the cell, gives him a fearful look.

 _You join us_ , Lem Lemoncloak said, _you’ll end with your neck in a noose, or your head mounted up above some castle gate._

The Brotherhood warned Gendry, but it was the Bull who refused to listen.

* * *

Trant sets a grueling pace, stopping the march only at night. Gendry and Anguy are let out of the roving cell to take pisses just after dawn and just before dusk, a routine that develops quickly. It's lucky for them, Gendry supposes, long accustomed to serving a master's whims—Jaqen, Rorge, and Biter, the worst of Yoren's pickings, were never allowed beyond the bars until Lorch's men attacked. Gendry passes the time the party spends rattling ever southward waiting for the questions about the Brotherhood to come, but they never do.

 _Is there gold hidden in the village? Silver, gems? Is there food? Where is Lord Beric?_ The Tickler always asked, disarmingly polite.

He shuts thoughts of the Tickler away. He wants to think of softer things. Things that'll soothe his mind. He thinks of Arya instead.

Yoren dragging them on and on, going further away from home than Gendry has ever been and growling about the needs of the Watch. Hot Pie's whining. Arry-Arya's quicksilver smiles. Lommy's braying laughter. It hurts Gendry a little. He misses them. Truly.

A softer thought? _Arya_? No. Nicer, maybe. Nicer to him, more than anybody was before her and some after.

The Brotherhood gave Gendry plenty of company. Friendship. Auguy's presence helps, especially after the Dragon Gate looms and the idea of freedom drifts further and further from reach. Over the creaks and groans of the rising portcullis, the archer glances at Gendry, chancing a word.

"The last time I was here, I won myself ten thousand gold dragons."

"The last time I was here, I was a smith."

"You're still a smith."

"You're short a few dragons," Gendry retorts. Anguy laughs.

"Aye. And I wasn't no outlaw, neither."

 _That's_ why they're here. No king wants to suffer a band of roustabouts with a war going on. Trant claims Gendry and Anguy are examples. Examples, sure, but more so to the Brotherhood than anyone else. Do as you please and carry on, just don't get caught with your hand in the pot. It was Gendry's fault. He challenged Anguy to take down the stag they were chasing for a day and a half. The arrow found the stag and the attention of a sentry, who alerted the nearest idiot in armor—Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard.

Gendry and Anguy are pushed and nudged into the Red Keep like a pair of pups, fetters clanging noisily, boots scuffing odiously. Trant and the gold cloaks march them past dusty suits of armor, gaggles of servants, and plenty of lords, the highborn lot trussed up in their sigils and cleaner finery than Gendry's ever gotten a look at. Two unwashed outlaws stagger by them all, due for the king's justice.

"Disgraceful," an old man in maester's robes harrumphs, as Trant joins the queue outside the Great Hall. "May His Grace..."

The maester breaks down coughing, shoulders seizing with the force of them.

"J-judge you justly," the old man finishes, looking half a heartbeat from the grave. Gendry wants to kick him the rest of the way there.

"May the Stranger take _you_ first," Anguy mutters. Trant hears and turns his head toward Anguy, smiling that ugly smile.

"Careful, boy. Grandmaester Pycelle has powerful friends."

The old man puffs up like a peacock, flattered by the insinuation. Anguy's spared the need to reply when the herald announces Trant.

People in Flea Bottom always talked of the king. The last king, the old drunk. They liked him. Hardly anyone mentions the Iron Throne itself, the monstrosity of melted swords and narrow stairs to its seat. Gendry's so focused on the distant curls of metal, he almost misses the crowd on every side, watching from behind pillars, above the floor on the galleys, or below the windows, tinting them all in a frightening red. He doesn't miss the new king, not with his glittering crown and golden hair, and a smile on his lips.

 _King Joffrey_ , Arya whispered, as everyone slept. Gendry always heard her, at Harrenhal, on the kingsroad, over fires and crickets and owl songs. _Ser Gregor. Dunsen. Polliver. Raff the Sweetling. The Tickler and the Hound. Ser Ilyn. Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei. King Joffrey…_

"Ser Meryn," the king crows, all good humor. Gendry and Anguy slump to their knees. "You've brought some friends."

"Men of the Brotherhood Without Banners, Your Grace," Trant jeers. "These _knights_ of the hills were raiding along the Mander."

Foraging, Gendry wants to correct him. They always paid for what they took, Lord Beric promising most solemnly of all.

The crowd begins to whisper. King Joffrey's smile withers away.

Fear hasn't struck Gendry yet; at the moment, it's only shame and anger, both pricking at his vision like flames slithering up the blade of a sword. He's never been more aware of his station until right now, in front of this lot. This well coiffed, better dressed, sweet smelling lot. In Flea Bottom, half groats, silver stags, and gold dragons are the stations to obey. Sharp tongues are the courtesies between all people, young and old, poor and poorer. Roughspun cloth is finer than the silks from across the narrow sea. And the smells…the smells aren't great, but you always knew what you were getting. It's the perfume that can't be trusted. The sweetness. The dishonesty.

"The rest eluded us," Trant adds, scornful. "Ser Gregor will take care of them."

 _You'll never find them_ , Gendry thinks, determinedly. _Never._

"Raiding my shores," Joffrey says, very softly, regaining Gendry's attention. The king abandons the whisper. "Step forward."

Trant steps on Gendry's foot as he moves to stand. Gendry winces, remaining on his knees. _Must mean Anguy_.

"I know your face. You're that archer," the king muses, snapping his fingers. "You outshot Ser Balon and Jalabhar Xho."

 _Not bluffing after all, then_. "Yes, Your Grace," Anguy answers, uneasy. "At the Hand's tourney."

"The traitor's tourney," King Joffrey corrects. "Then you must remember Lady Sansa."

The court draws away from one lady, as if she has a pox. She's the prettiest lady—the prettiest woman—Gendry has _ever_ seen.

"I—I do." A beat. "Y-your Grace," Anguy adds, hastily, courtesies rusted. "Though we've never met proper."

" _Properly_ , Anguy. Properly. No matter. Sansa, meet Anguy." A flick of his fingers, inlaid with glittering rings.

The lady curtsies, surrounded by the rest but very much alone. Gendry can relate. He watches her instead of the king, utterly transfixed.

"Well met, milady."

"And you, ser," she murmurs, quiet but clear. _She looks sad_ , Gendry thinks. The king snaps again, commanding a silence already given.

"Now that we're all acquainted, let's get down to it."

Trant drags Gendry to his feet and shoves a sword into his hands. The Kingsguard and gold cloaks rearrange themselves, forming a ring to circle around Gendry and Anguy. _He means us to fight_ , Gendry realizes, aghast. It's nothing like Lord Beric's justice, like the Brotherhood's justice. Where is Gendry's trial? Anguy's? Thieves lose hands or take the black. Why waste a trial by combat on them?

Now he is afraid.

"These hollow hill knights," Joffrey proclaims, face contorted in hideous glee, "will fight for Lady Sansa's hand!"

Anguy, Gendry, and Lady Sansa's jaws drop in collective shock. The court whispers amongst itself again. _Her hand_?

"Pardon, Your Grace?" Anguy questions, shooting Gendry a panicked look. Lady Sansa has recovered better, though her eyes betray her.

"You ignore your king's command?" Joffrey demands, jumping to his feet. Trant scowls. "I told you to fight, ser. Fight!"

But—

Gendry ducks the swing of Anguy's blade just in time, unable to muster a betrayed look before Anguy's swinging the sword again.

"Anguy!" Gendry yelps. _You're my brother!_ Gendry wants to shout. A brother he never had. He dodges another swing, barely.

Anguy looks pained. Maybe he's thinking of the Brotherhood, too, and the promises—platitudes, if that—they made as a group.

"Sorry, mate. It's me or you."

Guess not. Gendry angles his body sideface, just like Arya told him. Smaller target, she said, critical of his stance. Maybe she'll save him now. Gendry's steps are slower than Arya's, but bigger. Bigger than Anguy's, than the king's. He gives a little shake to his shoulders, readying himself to fight. Mott's shop needed apprentices and guards. The older Gendry got, the more he fit into both roles.

Gendry's initial strike is hard, slashing at Anguy's closed fist. The quicker this is over, the better.

Though, he knows, Anguy will haunt him forever. Anguy and the Brotherhood Without Banners, even if it was Anguy who struck first.

And the look in Lady Sansa's eyes. That too.

Startled by the blow and nursing bleeding fingers, Anguy switches to a less practiced hand (both hands hardly useful without a bow). Above them, the king huffs impatiently. When the Kingsguard makes a show of approach, armor clinking, Anguy's gaze twitches away, just for a moment. _Been an outlaw for too long, Anguy_ , Gendry realizes. Anguy's focus went everywhere at once to avoid detection, a necessity in the Riverlands. Gendry's is centered, efficient, furious. The killing blow lands in Anguy's heart, sure as the summer rains.

"Sorry," Gendry breathes as the sword slides back out of Anguy's chest. _Sorry, brother_. Joffrey answers, since Anguy cannot.

"Our champion," the king announces, clapping. The court joins at once, not wanting to lose the king's favor.

 _Like it's some tourney_ , Gendry thinks, blood very high, fear very low. He wants to kill Joffrey. He can. He should. He will.

Joffrey doesn't see the rising madness, the bloodlust, but Trant does; Gendry loses the sword almost as fast as Anguy died.

"You wed on the morrow, my lady," Joffrey tells Sansa, all insincere pleasantry. Lady Sansa looks sadder than ever, but she smiles.

"You honor me, Your Grace."

"I'm just a bastard," Gendry mumbles. No one seems to hear. Or care.

* * *

"Here," a knight orders, thrusting a cup of wine into Gendry's hands. A sellsword pushes him into a chair. A squire offers him food.

Gendry shakes his head, clutching the cup—the goblet, etched with Lannister lions and Lannister gold pieces—for dear life.

"Drink," says the Imp, not unkindly.

Gendry obeys, using the gulp of wine to recall the man's real name. Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister.

Funny. No one even asked for Gendry's name. He supposes he's lucky that way—Gendry the bastard boy nearly got himself killed by gold cloaks with a royal warrant. Dunsen and Polliver getting the Bull helmet shielded him from their reach, too. Now he's just...Gendry.

The wine is sweet, unbearably so. Ale's never this good. Gendry drains the cup, sets it on the table, and sucks in a deep breath.

"Thanks, m'lord."

Tyrion Lannister waves this away. The sellsword, Bronn, swipes Gendry's cup for himself; the knight, Garlan Tyrell, studies Gendry.

"Tyrion," Ser Garlan remarks, a curious lilt to his tone, "doesn't he remind you of—"

"He does. A story for another day," Tyrion interrupts, hastily. He regards Gendry with those mismatched eyes. "You fought well."

"Him or me," says Gendry, lowering his gaze on his hands. Anguy's blood coats the skin, darker than Lady Sansa's hair.

Bronn laughs. The squire, Podrick, refills Bronn's cup.

"And now you're to wed a lady," Tyrion continues, still watching Gendry. "A highborn lady. Much too high for you."

Gendry doesn't answer. Bastards know this from birth. Grow up faster because of it. It's an old wound, constantly festering.

"Too high," Gendry agrees, thinking of Lady Sansa's intimidating presence. Tyrion and the others ushered Gendry out of the hall just as Sansa left with a cluster of pretty ladies, the most appealing girl in the lead. Lady Margaery, Gendry found out after. Joffrey's betrothed.

Poor girl.

"A farce," Garlan murmurs after a long while. "Lady Sansa..."

"Could've married my nephew," Tyrion points out, firmly. "She's not worse off."

 _Isn't she_?

Garlan glances to Gendry. "What's your name, boy?"

"Gendry."

"Gendry," Tyrion repeats. A beat, like something is missing. A last name, Gendry knows, but only noble bastards get those.

He shrugs. He was the Bull, once. Ser Gendry, for a time. Nothing else, save for Mott's _boy_ styling at the shop.

"Well, Gendry," says Tyrion, as if deciding something. Nothing like the king. "Let's get started."

* * *

After a much needed bath, a spell with a tailor, and dinner, he's sent off to get some rest. The king interceded on Gendry's behalf; he's to room in the sept for the night, so that he can pray as fervently as Baelor the Blessed. Gendry misses the sarcasm, but Pod explains.

"His Grace implies...His Grace suggests your marriage to Sansa. I mean, Lady Sansa, will be as fruitful as Baelor and Daena's."

At Gendry's confused look, Podrick goes on, blushing a bright red.

"Baelor was very pious. He set Daena aside and she sought love...elsewhere."

Great.

Unable to sleep, Gendry lights candles at all of the altars, lingering at the Smith's and the Crone's. Gendry's favor of the Smith is the most familiar. He asks for strength, like always. Strength to stand as immobile as the statue of Baelor in the current of the court's song and dance. Gendry has work to do—he has to be a decent husband for a great lady. From the Crone, Gendry asks for wisdom. The Crone's light can show Gendry the way. The Brotherhood favors the Lord of Light thanks to Thoros, but Gendry wants to stick to what he knows, now that he's home.

Morning comes. The wisdom doesn't.

Gendry joins the assembly on the dais, wishing he could have another bath before the ceremony. _I'm marrying a lady today_ , Gendry thinks, staring up at the steps between the Father and Mother and feeling especially small. Urchinlike. Ser Garlan spots Gendry's indecision and guides him to where he should stand, seemingly unaware of the mass watching them, watching Gendry. Judging him.

Gendry himself judges the distance between them, him, and the doors. _Too far to escape_ , he thinks, miserably.

"Good luck, ser," Garlan whispers, bracingly. Gendry nods, struggling to muster the Bull's courage, the hollow hill honor he lost.

Lady Sansa arrives at last, escorted by the grinning king himself from one side of the sept to the other. She's beautiful in her bride cloak, silver and white and hair red as apples. _No_ , Gendry decides, fixating on this one detail to conquer his nerves. Dornish wine, like Lord Tyrion's endless supply. Coppers, like a hedge knight's purse. Flames, like the red sparks of a forge, tended to by a faithful smith.

"Uh," Gendry mutters without thinking, as the High Septon begins to speak. "Hi." The first thing he's said to her. _Idiot_ , Gendry gripes.

Lady Sansa just looks at him. "Hello," is all Gendry's wife-to-be replies, almost inaudibly. The septon drones on.

King Joffrey removes Lady Sansa's bridal cloak, a masterpiece of white velvet, pearls, and a direwolf stitched with silver threads.

 _Much too high for you_ , Tyrion said. The words seem to browbeat Gendry over and over in his mind, loud as drums.

Flushed with shame, Gendry fastens a traveling cloak around Lady Sansa's shoulders. It has no sigil, no words. There's no _real_ House to welcome a woman like Sansa Stark into its own this morning. Gendry, and now Sansa, as his wife, may as well be invisible.

 _Does it matter_? Gendry wonders, discomforted. He knows the answer. _Yes, it does._

The septon ties their hands together with a ribbon. Joffrey sniggers. Gendry spots Ser Meryn Trant's ugly smile, the queen's curling mouth, Lady Sansa's tears sliding down her pale cheeks, and Ser Garlan's grimace before Gendry looks away. Looks down at his hands and then his feet, where his gaze belongs. Gendry fumes in silence, angry with them all. With himself. This is all _his_ fault.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity."

"Father, Smith," they recite together, in front of smirking lordlings and haughty ladies. "Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger..."

"I am hers," Gendry promises.

"He is mine," Sansa agrees. "From this day, until the end of my days."

Lady Sansa's kiss to pledge their love is quick but cool. They are called one flesh, one heart, one soul by the High Septon, but Gendry feels further away from her than ever. She takes his arm when Gendry offers it, somehow more stately than the queen herself. Lady Sansa's composed now, incomparable to the girl on the dais who was tethered to Gendry forever. He envies that—that aloof look.

Their wedding feast is crowded, though cheerless. Gendry has his pick of drink and food, every option grander and richer than the last. No bowls o' brown here, but his wife's silence halts his appetite. That and the servants. No one's ever waited on Gendry before.

"More wine, ser?" A scullery maid asks.

"None for me," Gendry tells her, distracted by the slight shifting of his wife in her seat. "Thanks."

He stares at his plate, pushing the venison around with his fork. _Seven hells_. He once watched Arya eat bugs with more gusto than Gendry thought was needed. They wolfed down overripe berries and brewed pine needle tea and ignored their aching bellies before the Brotherhood found them and Hot Pie. Yet, the idea of scarfing down the richest food he has ever seen makes him sick to his stomach.

"Where does the food go?" Gendry asks, as the maid tops off Sansa's cup, barely touched. "After."

"After m'—ser?"

"After the feast," Gendry explains, feeling Lady Sansa's gaze drift from the dancing to him, and remain. "All the extra food."

The maid looks a little puzzled. "Thrown out, I think. Or to the kennels. Beggin' your pardons, I'm not sure."

Gendry latches onto the accent desperately, onto someone like him. Someone lower, someone who'd sit below the salt if invited. You grow an ear for the accents, after serving so many people. The lords and ladies in Mott's shop speak proper, cadences pristine, words like everything else of theirs: things of beauty. Knights and household servants follow their lords, changing pitches and grammar to mask their lower birth, if any. Knights tend to _drawl_ , too, utterances giving them a new layer of insolence and snobbery. Smallfolk speak quicker, louder, and less. Better say what you mean as soon as possible, if you want a fair deal and a good price. As for the Flea Bottom dwellers and mercenaries and men like the Mountain, like Raff and Chiswyck and Shitmouth and Polliver, even the Hound...they _snarled_.

"Could you..." Gendry pushes at his plate with his knuckles. "Could you give the extra to the lot in Flea Bottom, please? If you can?"

"I'll ask, ser," the maid promises, returning to her place with an uncertain smile. Lady Sansa looks away from Gendry, expressionless.

Gendry examines the cutlery. He runs his fingers over the nearest fork's design. The smith etched a crowned stag with a lion's pelt on all of the tableware. A bit silly looking, Gendry decides, unimpressed. He's searching for the maker's mark when his wife finally speaks up.

"Should we dance?" Sansa asks. Startled, Gendry drops the fork, wincing at the clatter.

"Yeah. I mean, yes. M'lady."

Gendry's left hand finds a place along Sansa's waist. The right joins her hand that isn't on his shoulder, smooth skin meeting a smith's roughness. Another shame. He makes his grip loose, recoiling as her breath catches. There's no missing the tension in her shoulders.

They step and sway, Gendry too clumsily. He just can't get the rhythm right. The king laughs as he sweeps by in the arms of Lady Margaery, loudly suggesting Lady Sansa should've married the Moon Boy instead. "At least he knows how to dance," Joffrey jeers.

"Sorry," Gendry mutters.

A sigh, like he's annoyed her. "For what, ser?"

"All this..." Gendry jerks a nod toward the dais, wordlessly meaning Joffrey. "Shit." He blanches. "Pardons, m'lady."

She pays this no mind. "His Grace is a man of infinite wisdom. We should be grateful for this match."

Gendry isn't sure he heard her right. Or she, him. He opens his mouth to object, but Sansa shakes her head, features like stone. She looked like that yesterday before she smiled at the king, courteous and appreciative. He understands after another spin around the floor and misstep—or three, truths told—Lady Sansa doesn't want to anger the king. Neither should Gendry, she seems to be telling him without saying a single word. Anguy's death should've made Gendry understand that. Displeasing the king just invites disaster.

"It's not fair," says Gendry, petulant as Lommy. Lady Sansa gives him her courtly smile, a beautiful look for an unhappy occasion.

"Life is not a song, ser. And he's no Dragonknight."

Sansa dances with the king, then king's brother, then Ser Garlan, who advised Gendry so nicely, and then another Tyrell, younger and more comely than the last. Sansa looks the most at ease with Garlan, the kindest lordling Gendry's met, save the Hands of King Robert.

Gendry has his own share of partners. Ser Garlan's wife, the Lady Leonette. Three Tyrell cousins. A Stokeworth. Gendry rebuffs Ser Dontos's drunken invitation to dance, however. Those in earshot start laughing, making an angry flush settle on Gendry's neck. He feels as much of a fool as Dontos, with all of these eyes on him. Like he's part of the night's entertainment, not a wedded man. Something to gawk at. He intends to stomp off, mayhaps beg off for Sansa's sake, but a new partner sweeps him into her arms, and that is that.

"Treat her well, will you?" Lady Margaery requests, just as tolerant of Gendry's matching left feet on the dance floor as Lady Sansa. He barely touches her, horribly aware of Ser Loras, the king, the queen regent, Lord and Lady Tyrell, and a wizened woman in Tyrell colors watching them very closely. Gendry concentrates on completing a shaky spin, more embarrassed than he's ever been in his entire life.

"Yes, m'lady," Gendry answers, sullenly, mindful of his new wife's hints. Gendry doesn't need the reminder. He isn't like Joffrey.

"She's like my sister," Margaery adds, flutters of genuine concern between her words. "I care for her. If you have any honor..."

 _If you have any honor in that bull head of yours, don't fuck her bloody_ , a gutter rat would spit at him.

"I have honor," Gendry interrupts, stubbornly. He doesn't believe it, but Margaery should. They'll leave him alone, this way. Maybe.

He isn't Rorge. Chiswyck. The Mountain. His men. Gendry won't be the kind of man Arya wants to kill, the kind she let that Lorathi kill.

"Then I need not worry," Lady Margaery concludes, smile now glimmering like diamonds.

Gendry's left on his own for a few minutes, until the king sets down his wine, looking half in his cups besides, just like King Robert.

"It's time to bed them!"

Faster than Gendry thinks possible, the ladies descend like flies to meat, hands grubbing like smallfolk in overcrowded pot-shops.

"Shapely, this one," the Lady Crane quips, as Gendry's newly sewn tunic is torn to shreds. Lady Merryweather laughs.

"Lady Sansa will love you," Lady Janna—or is it Lady Elinor? Gendry can't differentiate—enthuses, the rest of the circle clucking like hens.

Lady Margaery herself shoves him into Lady Sansa's chambers, warm hand on his back burning like a brand, closer to unseemly and improper than any of her courtly expressions on the dance floor in his arms or the king's. Lady Sansa joins only Gendry moments later, pale and quiet. They both stare at the door when bawdy suggestions begin to cut through the wood, each jape worse than the last.

Gendry looks away as Lady Sansa crosses the room to the bed, shoulders very stiff. The shift she has doesn't cover much, not like his breeches. Gendry stays put, looking everywhere but at his wife, the only girl in the Red Keep who didn't laugh at him today. He should stand here all night, like a city watchman at his post. Yes. He'll watch this spot of the floor, and kill any rat he finds. That's useful. Gendry likes being useful. "Nice," Gendry manages, voice dry as bone. "The...view. Outside," he tacks on, unevenly. _Not you. Yes_ , **you**.

"It is," Lady Sansa allows, politely. She's paler now, if possible.

"I've only seen it from outside. The keep."

That Gendry's lost. Mott's 'prentice. The one the lord Hands stared at like they were looking at a ghost and asked their questions. The anonymous boy. The Bull. It feels like a lifetime ago, that childhood on the Street of Steel. That Gendry never saw the amazing greens of the Riverlands. That Gendry never killed anyone, never slept next to a boyish highborn girl, never married that girl's beautiful sister.

"I don't think we should be discussing the view, ser," Lady Sansa murmurs, haltingly. _Much too high for you._

He can't be here. He should be laying out the rushes, or stoking the fire, or fetching food. A servant's duties. Not this—this is a lord's duty. A lord's duty to his lady. Would this lady want to touch him if she knew he hadn't had a bath in weeks before being captured?

"No," Gendry tells her, fighting a losing battle to make his voice steady with a confidence he lacks. He can't make it sound pleasing to her ears—it has Flea Bottom snags, brutish swings to her delicate, pretty lilts. "You're...you're a highborn. A real lady. I won't. I can't."

 _Take every untoward liberty, bastard_ , the king encouraged halfway through the feast. _Lady Sansa does as she's told._

Even talking to her too harshly is another 'won't', another 'can't'. If he _told_ her, she would. Terrified, but she would, without question. He has all the power here. No power he wants, all truths told. All highborns do is hurt everyone around and below them, Gendry included.

 _My mother’s a lady, and my sister, but I never was_ , Arya insisted.

"A lady and your wife."

She sounds scared. He hears it. Did the king whisper to her like he whispered to Gendry? Did Joffrey warn her of a bastard's appetites?

"I won't force you," Gendry insists, glaring at the floor like it's personally clubbed him upside the head. "It's not right."

He's never been with a woman. The fairest one he's ever seen doesn't want him. And this is a lord's daughter. Gendry won't do it.

"No, ser," she agrees, slowly, surprising him. He feels like he should retch. Retch and hide, and then retch some more, next in the king's food. Gendry glances around the room, studying her effects rather than the lady in her bed, their marriage bed. A mirror. A changing screen. A privy. Trunks of clothes. Jewelry. A tray with wine and figs. A vase of yellow roses. The hearth, blazing with a new fire.

Wait.

"Here," Gendry pipes up, suddenly, striding to the tray. No knife, to his disappointment. A fork'll do, ridiculous design aside. He joins Lady Sansa on the bed with plenty of distance between them. He rolls up one leg of his breeches to the ankle and stabs the prongs into his skin, earning a gasp from his lady wife. When enough blood coats Gendry's fingertips, he spreads it onto the bedsheet, owing the stroke of inspiration to an unwitting Rorge and all his foul threats to Arya. He puts the fork back and returns to spread the smear.

"You're faking the bedding," says Lady Sansa. Her hand covers his, getting Gendry's attention. "Why?"

Bastards are wanton. Bastards are born from lust and lies and weakness and betrayal. Everyone says so, knows so. _Everyone will expect it this from me_ , he thinks, sickened and angry. To take Sansa to bed like some sot stumbling out of a Flea Bottom whorehouse...

They want him to make Sansa miserable. Fuck her bloody. The killer who won her, taking his prize.

His eyes move from her hand to her body. Yellowing bruises cover her arms and shoulders, with darker ones on her stomach.

"It's the right thing," Gendry asserts, stubbornly, struggling to stamp out the terrible dread in his gut. He doesn't need another thing to haunt him. Another thing to hurt her. _Sansa_. The newest addition to Gendry's priorities. Gendry's wife, bound to him forever.

"Your right as a husband," she points out, albeit softer. Less convinced.

"Only if you give it freely." Bella in the Peach offered herself freely. Sansa has not. No true knight forces himself on the helpless.

That's what he's always wanted, in his heart of hearts. That Bull helmet was the beginning piece of the armor he imagined riding into battle with. It wouldn't matter what banner he fought under, which king he served. The boy on the Street of Steel longed to be a knight, and dreamed of everything that came along with it. A lady's love. The adoration of all. A colorful name, like Barristan the Bold. He never anticipated the disappointment that ran him down as he got older, polishing armor for men who weren't really true knights in the end.

Gendry's _always_ wanted that—to be true. A better knight than any he's ever met, more worthy of the title than any highborn.

"And...and if I never do?"

"Then you never will, m'lady."

His conviction wins out over hers, uncoiling the strain that's been cloaked around the room, around the two of them. Wanting to sell it as believably as any shopkeep in the city outside the walls with some crummy imitation of Astapor's wine of courage, Gendry sits up, meaning to set distance between them. The men at Harrenhal frightened Pia whenever they got too close and leery; Gendry wonders if staying away will put Lady Sansa more at ease. _I don't want to hurt you_ , Gendry wants to insist, despairing. _I'll be good to you, you'll see._ He moves to stand and get comfortable on the rushes or the chaise, only for her hand to catch his wrist in a vise, strong as her sister.

"Sansa," she says, softly, loosening her grip. "Just Sansa."

"Gendry," he answers after a beat, recovering from the surprise. He relaxes a fraction. They're on the same page, forging a tentative truce. She doesn't want to be hurt— _clearly_ , Gendry observes, unwillingly reminded of the king—and he doesn't want to hurt her.

"Gendry," Sansa repeats, trying the word on for size. It's sweet, coming from her mouth (nothing like the gnarling wretches of Flea Bottom, or the sour scorn of the gold cloaks). She even smiles a little, nothing like the put-on one from before. Her eyes even look like they're smiling, just like Arya's. She relaxes, just like him, and reclines against the headboard. "You're not what I expected," she admits. She tugs a robe around her body, drawing the band tighter until it covers her any exposed skin. He makes a point of looking away.

"You're all I expected," Gendry says, but goes on hastily, retreating from what sounds like a slight in retrospect. "A real lady."

That pleases her. "If I'm a real lady, you must be a real knight."

"No, m'lady," Gendry protests, half in jest, but Sansa laughs—actually laughs, making Gendry's unease whittle away into nothing.

"Sansa, please," Gendry's new wife requests. "When we're alone, I'm just Sansa." She's teasing right back, Gendry realizes. He parries.

"As m'lady commands."

While Arya pushed him to the ground after a smart comment like that, Sansa just hits him with a pillow. Real proper, these two.


End file.
